


choking like a dog on a collar (i'm sick of the chase, but i'm stupid in love)

by callmeautumn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Charlie Weasley, Canon deaths, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Fred Weasley, Gratuitous Use of the Word 'Cock', Happy Wholesome Ending, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of past homophobia, Non-Binary Nymphadora Tonks, Overcoming Internalized Homophobia, Pansexual Bill Weasley, Pansexual Ginny Weasley, Use of the F-slur In A Negative Light, emotional growing pains, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27413365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeautumn/pseuds/callmeautumn
Summary: Through the blur of tears, Harry can just make out Malfoy’s face, flushed and spread into a toohy, unselfconscious grin. For a swooping moment, Harry imagines diving in, pressing his lips to Malfoy’s, kissing him, tasting the moonlight and joy on his teeth.The thought sobers him, pulls him up short. Malfoy picks up on his seriousness, follows suit quickly. His brow furrows. “Are you alright?”“I’m not a faggot.” The words are out of his mouth before he can really consider them, a bitter taste rising to follow them past his lips. Malfoy’s face shutters, then rearranges into an expression Harry doesn’t recognize. He opens his mouth but clearly thinks better of it and closes his lips. Harry tries to do the same, tries to say something to fill the awful silence that’s fallen, but nothing comes out.Finally, Malfoy breathes out a laugh. “Well, I am; a faggot, that is.”
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 179





	1. sometimes i think i'm a killer

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been working on for a while, as well as my first multi-chapter fic! Harry works through some rather intense internalized homophobia. There is a gratuitous use of the words 'cock' and 'f*ggot'. If those words offend or trigger you, I recommend you leave now. I don't actually specify Harry's sexuality in this fic, although his canon relationship with Ginny is mentioned (it's over by the time this story starts) and I personally headcannon him as bisexual. Do with that as you please. I hope you all enjoy! Kudos are loved and comments, if you can, are appreciated!
> 
> Inspired by the song "Killer + The Sound" by Phoebe Bridgers and Noah Gundersen

Harry watches him incessantly. He can’t seem to stop, really. He knows that technically he’s been living with Malfoy for the last six years. But now that Harry shares a room with him, sees him fresh from the shower, and reading in bed, and working in the garden, and just _existing_ \- closer to Harry than he’s ever been-- 

He becomes real, somehow. He takes up space in Harry’s mind, even more than he did in years prior, and in a markedly different way. Instead of watching Malfoy laugh with his friends at the Slytherin table, he watches Malfoy read books at a speed that rivals Hermione. Instead of following Malfoy through the gothic halls of Hogwarts, he follows the line of Malfoy’s wrist as he sips his morning coffee; follows the line of his eyes, slitted with sleep and pleasure as he takes his first sip; follows the line of his lips as they curve into a satisfied smile. 

Malfoy, of course, is as infuriating as ever. 

He takes it upon himself to completely recreate the Black family tapestry, pulling an entire bloody loom out of the attic and shaving off the back third of his hair to do it. Worst of all, it looks good; the tapestry that is. (Harry has no opinion on the undercut Malfoy’s given himself, other than that seeing so much blonde hair fall to the floor felt like a loss Harry couldn’t quite articulate.) In the end, it’s a near perfect replica of the tapestry before, down to the intricate embroidery details at the borders. 

Ron sees him weaving the base layer, pulling thread over thread in a hypnotic pattern and asks, snidely, if he also made quilts and handkerchiefs in his free time. Malfoy, cool as ever and seeming almost pleased by the line of questioning, responds in the affirmative without removing his eyes from the intricate work before him. Ron had no choice but to stalk off, muttering a choice _cock sucker_ under his breath. Malfoy doesn’t contradict him. Harry hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, about the way Malfoy’s lips had twitched upwards with Ron’s words, the hint of a wry smile as his fingers carried on their careful pattern.

He moves through the house like he owns it, rearranging furniture and swapping pillows as he pleases. Inevitably, the occupants of the room look to Harry, wondering when he’ll finally put a stop to Malfoy’s slow but steady refurbishment of Grimmauld Place. Harry isn’t sure how to say that, technically, Malfoy has more claim to it than he does. He isn’t sure how to admit that he likes the changes Malfoy’s made, admires his eye for colors and textures, the way his presence seems to make the walls sigh in contented pleasure. He isn’t sure how to say any of it, so he just looks back at them like that’s any sort of response and let’s Malfoy carry on. 

~

Harry snaps awake, the rustle of fabric and groaning of floorboards pushing him into full alertness. Ron’s kerosene lamp, one of many mementos from their time on the run, burns low, casting long shadows and just enough light to see by. Across the room, Malfoy is rising from his bed roll near the door. Before he finishes slipping on his shirt, Harry catches sight of the scarred mess that is his torso. The thick, pink lines are darker than Harry ever imagined they’d be - darker, certainly, than the ones that cross his face and hands. He can’t stop the sharp inhale he takes. Malfoy freezes for just a moment and his eyes scan the room. But his gaze passes right over Harry, the sound shaken off with another small squeak from the floorboards. 

In nothing but an oversized beige t-shirt and boxer briefs, Malfoy slips from the room. A familiar brew of anticipation and curiosity bubbles in Harry’s chest. He counts to five then follows. 

Harry trails Malfoy down the stairs, across the dark kitchen, and into the backyard. It’s a space that Harry hadn’t given much thought to, though he knew it existed. Now that he’s here, he’s shocked the family hasn’t spent more time in the space. It’s neatly kept, even now. In the moonlight, a small, in-ground pool is nestled in the back corner of the property. Malfoy walks confidently to its edge and begins stripping. Off comes the t-shirt, then the briefs, both left in a small pile at the edge of the water. 

In one graceful arc, Malfoy dives into the water. The light is just bright enough that Harry can make out his shape at the bottom of the pool, platinum hair floating in a cloud around his head. Harry watches, counts the seconds as Malfoy stays curled in a ball at the bottom of the pool. 

Just as Harry is considering pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and diving in after Malfoy, he comes splashing to the surface. Malfoy’s face is flushed red, his hair plastered to his head. He treads water, breathes, rocks the water just by being, just by surviving. Harry feels a sudden, bizarre kinship with the pool, the way he cannot escape Malfoy’s influence. 

Harry is helpless as he’s drawn closer to the pool and takes a seat at the outer edge of the pool’s stone border. He watches as Malfoy drops to the bottom of the pool, then comes flying up to the surface at the last moment, taking in lungfuls of cool night air and looking toward the moon. He watches each death-defying stunt with awe, even a little jealousy. Malfoy, for all his reserve and silence around the house, seems free, here, in the water under the moon. 

Finally, Malfoy breaks the surface and swims to the edge of the pool. He comes just close enough to lay his arms on the stone border, lays his head down with them. “You can come out from under the cloak,” he announces to no one in particular. “I know you’re there.” 

Harry considers staying silent for a single, surprised throb of his heart, then discards the thought. Before he can analyse why on earth he’s revealing himself, his hands are whipping away the cloak. 

Malfoy’s eyes fall unerringly on him. His expression is unusually unguarded, eyes fond and a little mischievous. “There you are.” 

Harry nods. _Here I am._

Malfoy’s lips quirk up, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Care to join me?” 

When Harry doesn’t respond, Malfoy shrugs. “Suit yourself. The water is surprisingly warm.” Then, with an artful twist in the water, he’s floating on his back. His whole, nude body is suddenly bared to Harry. He should look away. He knows he should. He should look to his hands, or the grass, find something to say to fill the silence that’s fallen between them. Harry does none of these things. Instead, he does what he always does. He watches Malfoy. 

He maps the line of scars from his face, down his neck, across his torso, bisecting the line of his hips, down each thigh and to each foot. He watches their color change - pale and thin on Malfoy’s face, thick and flushed pink on his torso and thighs, thinner on his calves, nearly negligible on the base of his feet. Idly, Harry counts ten fingers, ten toes. 

Ultimately, his eyes are drawn to Malfoy’s prick, laying soft and harmless on his belly. A familiar shame wells in Harry’s throat. He shouldn’t be looking at another man’s cock like this. Still, he can’t look away. His eyes flick helplessly to Malfoy’s face, note that his eyes are still closed, his face still slack with relaxation. After a moment to confirm that Malfoy is none the wiser, Harry lets his eyes return to Malfoy’s prick. 

It’s surrounded by a thatch of curly, dark blond hairs, made smooth by the water. It’s pinker than Harry might have imagined, if he’d imagined, which he _hadn’t_ . But if he _had_ , he wouldn’t have imagined it so dusky, like it was perpetually flushed. Malfoy is circumcised, different from Harry’s own uncircumcised penis. He wonders what it feels like, what the lack of anything might be like between his fingers. He shuts the thought down, flicks his eyes back to Malfoy, who is still blissfully ignoring him. 

Completely without warning, Malfoy’s eyes pop open, looking right at him. Harry flushes, looks to the grass as he should have done in the first place. What was he thinking, eyeing a man’s cock like that? It’s disgusting; indecent. He hears Malfoy swim to the edge of the pool, the water going soft and silent. Harry chances a look back. Malfoy is looking at him, eyes the most terrible, wonderful mixture of intense and playful. That half smile is painted across his lips, a challenge and invitation all at once. 

“C’mon,” he says, pushing up from the pool and to his feet in a fluid motion. Harry looks away before he gives into the temptation to look at Malfoy’s body once more. “I’m in the mood for cookies.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Malfoy pull back on his t-shirt and briefs. Then Malfoy is striding away, bare feet leaving wet indents in the dried out grass. As always, Harry follows. 

~

Harry watches Malfoy make the cookie dough from scratch in a sort of stunned silence. In all the sweltering weeks they’ve been cooped up in Grimmauld Place, waiting for the world to stop it’s reeling, never has Harry seen Malfoy cook. But here he is, measuring out ingredients with a sure hand. His hair is lost in the type of twirly turban Harry’s seen Ginny make, though Malfoy is using one of Molly’s tea towels instead of a proper body towel. It’s a funny sight, though funny in a way that makes Harry’s heart achy and quiet. 

Even now, he isn’t sure how to think of Ginny. She was once a nuisance, then a friend, then a lover, and now a pseudo-something that Harry cannot place. It’s not that he consciously expected Ginny to be waiting when he came back. Except, clearly, some part of him _was_ expecting that exact thing. Just like in the movies, Ginny would be waiting for him, holding her love sacred in her hands to offer back to him the instant he saved the day. They would share a kiss while the world was ending, or something equally foolish but romantic. That hadn’t happened, clearly would never happen. Ginny has already moved on, spends most of her time with Luna at Bill’s cottage, and Harry seems to be the only one who isn’t sure what to make of that. 

He comes back to the present when Malfoy slips the bowl of batter into the ice box and holds a batter-covered spoon out to him. When Harry doesn’t respond, he twitches his eyebrow and shakes the spoon a bit. 

“Lick it,” he insists. Harry just blinks at him. Malfoy rolls his eyes and slips into the seat perpendicular to Harry’s. He swipes a single, long finger through the batter on the back of the spoon, holds up the now-dirty finger for Harry to see.

“Like this.” Grey eyes locked on Harry’s, he pops the finger in his mouth, sucks it with a lewd hollow in his cheeks. His finger is slick with saliva when he retrieves it from his mouth. Harry tracks it with his eyes, a familiar helplessness rising in him. 

“C’mon, Potter. You’re faster on the uptake than you look.” His voice is low, teasing, an easy counterpoint to the underhanded, half-insult he delivered. 

Slowly, still feeling wildly out of his depth, Harry reaches out a finger and picks up some of the batter. It’s sugary and gritty between his teeth. Malfoy’s smile softens, loses some of it’s predatory edge. His eyelashes are so pale in the low light of the kitchen. He looks like he belongs in some French silent film filled with beautiful moments like this where the light hits the main character and makes them striking and strange and deeply human; the type of film where nothing happens but you still leave feeling sad and vulnerable and looking for those same types of deeply human moments everywhere. Harry should look away. He doesn’t, not until Malfoy reaches for another fingerful of batter. 

They share the spoon in silence. Harry lets Malfoy take the little bit left of the edges of the spoon. Malfoy sets it primly on the side of the table, balancing it so the cup of the spoon is resting off the table. He then slouches back, releases his hair from it’s tea towel casing. It tumbles out, still shiny from the water. Malfoy shakes it out lightly, runs his fingers through it. 

“Your hair’s curly.” Harry doesn’t know why he’s said it, can’t fathom why the words have escaped his stupid lizard brain. But Malfoy doesn’t look offended or weirded out. He just looks at Harry and slowly raises an eyebrow. 

“He speaks.” Then, “Yes, my hair is curly. Your eyes are green.”

Harry coughs out a laugh. “What?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Malfoy’s expression has morphed to something comically innocent, grey eyes wide, cheeks softened and slack with faux surprise. “I thought we were stating the obvious.” He holds the expression for only a few more heartbeats. Then they’re both giggling, punch drunk and falling over one another at the kitchen table. Malfoy holds a finger to Harry’s lips, trying to hush the honking laughs exploding out of him. 

“Sshhh,” he chokes out. “You’ll wake the house.” 

This somehow makes them laugh harder. Through the blur of tears, Harry can just make out Malfoy’s face, flushed and spread into a toohy, unselfconscious grin. For a swooping moment, Harry imagines diving in, pressing his lips to Malfoy’s, kissing him, tasting the moonlight and joy on his teeth. 

The thought sobers him, pulls him up short. Malfoy picks up on his seriousness, follows suit quickly. His brow furrows. “Are you alright?” 

“I’m not a faggot.” The words are out of his mouth before he can really consider them, a bitter taste rising to follow them past his lips. Malfoy’s face shutters, then rearranges into an expression Harry doesn’t recognize. He opens his mouth but clearly thinks better of it and closes his lips. Harry tries to do the same, tries to say something to fill the awful silence that’s fallen, but nothing comes out. 

Finally, Malfoy breathes out a laugh. “Well, I am; a faggot, that is.” He says it with a simplicity that hits Harry like a bowling ball to the chest. Something like disappointment swims in Malfoy’s eyes before he blinks and it disappears, replaced with the same cool wryness that Harry saw when Ron called him a cock sucker; the same ironic, twisted, if-only-you-knew expression that he does so well. 

“Malfoy-- I-- I didn’t-- I’m--” 

Malfoy just shakes his head, presses his teeth together until Harry can see the flex of his jaw. Then, “You said what you meant, Potter.” The accusation lurking just beneath is a blow that Harry accepts without recourse. 

The minutes pass, sticky and stubborn. Malfoy traces the grain of the table with his fingertip for a few of them, then rises to clean the dishes by hand. Harry watches, struck again by the absurdity of Draco Malfoy doing anything so domestic or plebeian as washing dishes. But there Malfoy is, clearing off measuring cups and the spoon they shared with sure stokes of a soapy sponge. 

Harry thinks he ought to look away, ought to give them both the space they need to come down from this fever dream of a night. He should go back upstairs, pretend to be asleep by the time Malfoy returns to bed. But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, rooted to the chair, gripping the Invisibility Cloak folded in his lap, and watches Malfoy. 

Harry looks on in silence as Malfoy pulls out a baking sheet, turns on the oven, and retrieves the cookie dough from the ice box. Harry watches Malfoy pull off a piece of dough, roll it into a log that makes Harry think, perversely, of the penis he saw not an hour earlier; watches Malfoy break the log in half with a swift motion, press it into a small patty on the sheet. Over and over Malfoy does this. Over and over, Harry means to say something, means to resolve the tension between them. Over and over, he says nothing. Malfoy’s voice breaks Harry from his reverie. 

“What?” 

“I asked if you’d like some almond slices on your cookies.” Malfoy’s eyes are neutral, guarded. Harry desperately wishes he could go back in time, slap the shit out of himself before he could say anything. 

“No,” he says after a long pause. “No, I’m alright.” 

Malfoy just shrugs and sprinkles large salt flakes over each circle of cookie dough. 

“You aren’t going to put any on yours?” 

Malfoy shakes his head, an odd smile pulling his lip up on one side. “I’m allergic to almonds,” he says simply. “I just saw them in the pantry; figured I’d offer.” 

A pause.

“Thanks.” If Harry expected some grand gesture, some sign that Malfoy heard the double meaning behind his thanks, he doesn’t get it. All he gets is an absent, breathy, _yeah_.

What is he saying thank you for, anyway? Thank you for seeing me, even when I am invisible? Thank you for letting me bear witness to your freedom? Thank you for letting me look at your dick? Thank you for not punching me in the face? Thank you for being a faggot? 

The sugar cookie, when it comes, is warm, and small, and perfect in his hands. 

~

The next day, Harry means to tell Ron that Malfoy is a fag. He wants to float the piece of news over their game of chess, retell the story to make Malfoy into a caricature of himself, share a laugh at his expense. But the words won’t come up. Each time he tries to say it, a sliver of memory crops up, stops him dead in his tracks. The flush of Malfoy’s scars; the pale flutter of his eyelashes; the thrill of his laughter; the hollow of his cheek; the way he’d made no secret of his sexuality. There was no joke to be had when Malfoy said it, although there was an accusation: _Of all my crimes, is loving what you’ll tar me for?_

Finally, Harry works up the nerve to say something, opens his mouth to finally get this secret off his chest. Except, what comes out is, “Malfoy is allergic to almonds.” 

Ron looks up from his move. “Wha’?” 

Harry shakes his head, flames licking at his cheeks. “Nothing.” 

Ron gives him a strange look, then returns his gaze to the chess board. 

Harry loses the game soon after, shame sugary and gritty on his tongue. 


	2. hope you kiss my rotten head

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Draco feels-- it feels intimate. Too intimate, almost. To call him Draco would be to change every thought he’s ever had about the man in some subtle, undeniable way. Draco reads in bed. Draco hums when he brushes his teeth. Draco bites his lip when he’s making cookies. Draco has a pink cock. Draco is a faggot. 
> 
> The trouble is, now that he’s started thinking of him as Draco, he can’t stop.

Luna comes over at breakfast. She’s got miniature mushrooms hanging from her one ear and miniature lettuce from the other. Every few minutes, Ginny looks over to her and smiles like she’s seeing a miracle. Each time it happens, Luna gazes back, serene and softly smiling, giving Ginny the perfect opportunity to push a lock of blonde hair behind Luna’s ear. 

There’s a tenderness in those moments that makes them hard to look at. Harry finds he can’t look away, if only because looking away would leave him nowhere to look but Malfoy and his own blond hair, and the feeling of wanting to tuck it behind a small, pointy ear. Malfoy has left his hair curly this morning, loose and falling just a bit beyond his jaw. He’s wearing a dark brown sweater that’s been cut into a crop top and embroidered with mushrooms. Harry should be embarrassed that he recognizes the embroidery work as Malfoy’s own hand. He isn't. He’s just impressed, really, at the detail and shading created by Malfoy’s hand and pieces of thread. Harry can’t see what Malfoy’s wearing for pants, but he can see the glint of his nose ring in the early morning light. Luna had complimented it when she walked in, then smiled as Malfoy returned the praise, saying with a laugh that they matched. Luna’s face had broken into a flushed, crooked smile which caused Ginny to beam and laugh, and Harry had been frozen, watching. 

Distantly, Harry watches Malfoy bite into a piece of buttered toast and wonders if he ought to call Malfoy  _ Draco _ now. Shouldn’t they be on a first name basis? He’s seen the man’s prick, after all. But  _ Draco _ feels-- it feels intimate. Too intimate, almost. To call him  _ Draco _ would be to change every thought he’s ever had about the man in some subtle, undeniable way.  _ Draco _ reads in bed.  _ Draco _ hums when he brushes his teeth.  _ Draco _ bites his lip when he’s making cookies.  _ Draco _ has a pink cock.  _ Draco _ is a faggot. 

The trouble is, now that he’s started thinking of him as Draco, he can’t stop. His eyes follow  _ Draco _ as he makes himself his fifth cup of earl grey tea. He inhales when  _ Draco _ walks past, hoping to get a whiff of sandalwood and lavender as he parts the air. He watches  _ Draco _ write in the margins of his latest book, tongue poking out between his lips. He admires the way the light pools around  _ Draco _ ’s body as he sits in his favoured armchair and journals the day away. At least now his attention is split between watching Draco and watching someone else. He watches Ginny and Luna, eyes flicking to Draco, asking without asking,  _ are you seeing this as well? _ Except, Draco doesn’t look back, doesn’t acknowledge him, acts as if two women playing with one another’s fingers and trading soft kisses and laying atop one another’s chest was perfectly normal. Harry watches Luna press a giggly kiss to Ginny’s forehead then looks at Draco, who is reading and entirely oblivious to the re-alignment of stars and data in Harry’s universe. 

Luna returns to Bill’s cottage at the end of the day, sent off through the Floo after another round of kisses so tender they are impossible to look away from. Draco is still here. After dinner he’d traded crop top and high waisted jeans for his beige t-shirt and cotton shorts so short they may as well have been his briefs. He’s curled up in his armchair, feet on the seat and thighs tucked into his chest, his latest novel perched on the pink caps of his knees. Harry watches stubby toes flex beneath mismatched, green socks. His mind flashes back to the pool and the moonlight, counting Draco’s toes as they pushed him lazily through the water. Draco’s hand reaches out, knocks gently against the rim of his mug, then pulls it close to his chest. He holds it there for a few minutes, eyes moving quickly across the page. One finger reaches up, pushes the center bar of his glasses further up his long, straight nose. 

That had been the latest heart-stopping addition to his person - large, square glasses that made his grey eyes into planets and complemented the angles of his face perfectly. At Molly’s cluck of surprise, Draco had casually informed her that he’d run out of his vision-correcting potion. That had been hours ago, and Harry still hasn’t recovered. He doesn’t know why he finds the glasses so devastating. Maybe it’s the new host of gestures he gets to witness - the way Draco pushes them up with a single, absent-minded finger; the way he lifts his glasses off his nose by their corner in order to drink anything hot; the way he’ll occasionally pull them off entirely and massage the bridge of his nose with two fingers before returning the glasses to their rightful place on his nose. It’s intoxicating to Harry, a slice of intimacy even more profound than seeing him blow his nose or stir three and a half scoops of sugar into his coffee. 

Suddenly overwhelmed by something he isn’t ready to name, Harry staggers up from his seat on the couch and dives for the hallway. Without much thought, his feet take him to the kitchen. Ginny is already sitting there, flipping through the morning’s paper and sipping a cup of fragrant, pink tea. Harry’s mind flashes to Draco’s pink knees, his pink scars, his pink cock. He squeezes his eyes shut, like that will do anything. 

“Harry? You okay?” 

Harry sighs heavily, rubbing where he knows his scar is, though his current grimace has absolutely nothing to do with Voldemort. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, ‘m fine. Just.” He doesn’t finish the sentence, slides into a kitchen chair. Ginny gives him a look not dissimilar to Ron’s baffled confusion, then returns to her paper. 

“That tea smells delicious,” Harry says, just for something to fill the silence, something to distract him from thoughts of  _ Draco, Draco, Draco _ . 

Ginny smiles brightly, eyes going a bit distant. “Thank you! Luna made the blend - blood orange and lemon grass.”

Harry smiles, can’t  _ not _ smile when Ginny’s joy is so clear on her face. For a moment, Harry wonders if he ever made Ginny smile like that. He scraps the thought quickly. He doesn’t want to pit himself against Luna, certainly doesn’t want to rake through the mess of memories and emotions that was their time together to parse out whether Ginny was happy, whether he was to blame if she wasn’t. “Gin, can I ask you a question?” 

“Sure.” Her tone is light but her expression is concerned. After a pause when neither of them says anything, she asks, “Are you alright?” 

Time-space vertigo whirls through him, pulls Harry back to sitting at this very table and waiting for cookie dough to cool, laughing with Draco only to ruin something he wasn't even sure he wanted.  _ No _ , he wants to say.  _ No, I’m not alright. I have no bloody fucking idea what’s going on _ . But he doesn’t say that. Instead, he returns her question with one of his own. 

“When did you know that-- erm.” He clears his throat, glances up at Ginny. “When did you know that you liked girls?” 

“Oh.” Her face is slack with surprise for a moment, then she shrugs. “Dunno. I think I’ve always known, really. Or, at least, I always knew that a person’s gender didn’t really matter much to me. I never really understood the idea of caring if the person I liked was a man, or a woman, or something else entirely.” 

“Like… a veela?” 

“No, like non-binary?” At Harry’s blank stare, she laughs. “Like Tonks?” It aches to think about Tonks, her bright hair and brighter smile, all gone forever. 

“I didn’t realize--” he says. “That she was-- er.” He gestures loosely toward Ginny, who is smiling mischievously. 

“Non-binary,” Ginny says slowly. “It’s just someone who doesn’t identify as a man or a woman. Perfectly harmless, just like Tonks. Not a dirty word at all.” Then she sobers, her expression becoming thoughtful, a bit nostalgic. “I guess I’m pretty lucky, though. I mean, Charlie doesn’t really go for anyone and Fred--” she pauses, looks down at the table, then looks back up. “Fred was apparently very popular with the Hufflepuff boys. He was a real charmer, y’know?” Here she pauses, clears her throat, squares her jaw. “And before Fleur, Bill was with a new person every week, seemed like. Point being: I grew up with role models. I grew up in a family where it wasn’t that big of a deal. You like who you like and that’s the end of it. I mean, sure, Mum and Dad made some not-so-hot remarks over the years. But,” she shrugs. “You saw how they were with Luna today.” 

No, Harry didn’t, actually. He was too busy watching Ginny and Luna, watching Draco, watching and wishing he could do something but not really sure what he was wishing for. But he nods along anyway, agreeing that Molly and Arthur really hadn’t made a big deal of anything. Molly had clucked and fed and knitted as usual. Arthur had asked Luna engaging questions, listened carefully as she spoke about the latest research project she and her father were working on with the sea nymph colony that lived just offshore near Bill’s cottage. They’d taken it in stride, accepting that Luna was, at least for the moment, a part of Ginny, an extension of her presence. 

“Did that answer your question?” Harry nods but Ginny keeps talking. “I know I’ve had it pretty easy. There was no, big, ‘oh, actually, I’m not straight at all’ moment for me. I’ve had the privilege to pretty much always know and live in a home where there really wasn’t much shame about it. I could experiment with who I liked doing what I was interested in, and other than some off-color comments, nobody thought otherwise of it.” 

Harry huffs a laugh, just to do something to fill the silence, acknowledge that there  _ was _ something that felt foreign and almost too easy about her admission. She’d never felt what Harry is feeling - the fear, the confusion, the shame so thick it makes it hard to breathe. 

“Thanks,” he chokes out. He stands on unsteady feet, ignores her look of concern, and heads for the door. 

“Harry?” He looks back. Ginny’s eyes are knowing and sympathetic. They ache, poking at something tender, like a bruise somewhere deep in his chest that he can’t keep worrying. “It’s alright if you aren’t who you thought you’d end up being,” she says quietly. 

Harry can only thank her again and run. 

~

When Harry gets up to his room, Draco is already there, sitting against the wall. His eyes go wide at the look on Harry’s face. Overwhelmed and afraid and needing something,  _ anything _ , Harry dives. 

His mouth collides with Malfoy’s. Draco makes a noise of shock, or fear, or  _ something _ , and then their lips are moving together. He’s warm, and willing, and Harry thinks he could die here, pressed against the hot line of Draco’s body, kneeling awkwardly on the floor. Draco presses his hands to Harry’s chest, pushing until Harry is forced to separate from him. His eyes are wide and confused, but they’re so beautiful. Harry gives into the urge that’s been building since the morning. He pushes a piece of hair behind Draco’s ear, traces the uncurled line of cartilage at the top with a trembling fingertip. 

“Breathe.” Draco’s voice is low and soft, soft as the light from Ron’s kerosene lamp. “Breathe, Harry.” 

But when Harry exhales it’s a sob. Then another. Then he cannot breathe because tears and spit and snot are mixing, and running, and  _ choking _ him. He is afraid. He is terrified, scared absolutely shitless, and somehow dying, literally laying down his life, was easier than this. Draco pulls him to his chest, lays them down and wraps Harry up until there is nothing for Harry to do but cry into Draco’s bony collarbone, feel his birdcage ribs moving out and in beneath his own heaving body. On repeat, their words ring in his mind.  _ Well I am; a faggot that is. It’s alright if you aren’t who you thought you’d end up being.  _

Harry had meant to storm in and-- something. Maybe kiss Draco, or fuck him; get it out of his system, try to convince hismelf that his obsession had finally come to a close and now he could go back to his life. But now he’s here, cradled in Draco’s arms; his hands warm and solid on Harry’s back. Now he’s here, feeling Draco’s heartbeat pressed against his ear. Now he’s here and he knows he can’t go back but he doesn’t know how to move forward. 

“I’m so afraid.” 

Draco takes a deep breath, stokes a hand through Harry’s hair. His nails are blunt and soothing when he scratches gently at Harry’s scalp. “Rest your eyes, Harry. Everything is scarier in the nighttime.” 

~

Awareness and shame bloom as twin bruises behind Harry’s eyes, his heart already beating tight and fast with anxiety. Beneath him, Malfoy sleeps on, breath even and slow, the barest pause after every exhale.  _ Keep breathing _ , some part of Harry begs at the depth of each exhale;  _ keep breathing _ , even as Harry scrambles up from the low cot and into the bathroom. 

His watch has left deep, throbbing bruise lines on his wrist. He winces, twists it until he can read its face. Six a.m. Through the small, circular window in the shower wall, Harry can see the sun rising over the horizon, flushing the small bathroom with golden light. Unbidden, the memory of Draco in the kitchen morphs and melts with the present moment, time and space crunching until he is looking in the mirror and looking into Malfoy’s open, mischievous eyes at the same time. 

Harry blinks, and the moment disappears. The mirror is just a mirror, and dirty now that he’s looking. He accidentally catches his own eye, looks away to the crease from Draco’s sleep shirt left on his cheek, then steps away from the sink entirely. He pisses, remembers that Draco is circumcised, and wonders again about the weight and shape of nothing. He washes his hands and looks at nothing at all. 

When he slips back into the room, Malfoy is awake, looking directly at Harry. Their eyes meet. Harry forgets to keep time with the beat of his heart. Heat rushes to his cheeks and ears at the memory of last night, blood rushing so quickly that he is light- and heavy-headed at once. Draco’s face is shadowed and hard and beautiful. Draco is beautiful; at every hour, in every location, even flushed from sleep and demanding answers Harry cannot give. Still in his clothes from yesterday, Harry slips out of the bedroom door and moves resolutely downstairs, feeling the weight of Malfoy’s eyes even five floors away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a little short, but combining it with the next chapter made them too long. please bear with me, this is my first time splitting works into chapters! i hope you're enjoying the story so far!


	3. you're passing your people like a ship in the night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry belongs with the Weasleys, belongs in their perfect home, with their quaint life, and their husbands who look adoringly at their wives-- Except Ginny, who looks at Luna. Except Charlie, who looks at no one. Except Fred, who looked at Hufflepuff boys. Except him, Harry, who looks at Draco and sometimes cannot look away.

They move from kissing to fucking faster than Harry can really comprehend. At night, their bodies move together, rocking in time with their breaths, with their moans muffled in shoulders and palms, with the raging pound of heartbeats. At night, with Ron’s kerosene lamp standing guard against the unknown, Harry learns the weight of nothing in his hands. 

Now, he knows what it is like to watch Draco grow flushed all over; what it is like to trace the line of hair from his belly button to his dick with his lips; what it is like to smell the sweat behind Draco’s knee. He knows what makes Draco muffle a shriek in his forearm, what will earn him an impatient swat to the head. He knows that Draco laughs, sometimes, when they make a weird noise, when  _ Harry _ makes a weird noise. He knows that Draco likes to ride him, slow and rolling, like a tide, like water. He knows that sometimes, when Draco chases his own pleasure, eyebrows drawn tight, he is a God sharing Harry’s sheets. 

Harry likes what they do at night. In the dark, with nothing between them but skin and sweat and oil that Draco stashes beneath the bed, Harry can push aside the shame. At night, there is no guilt, no frustration, no unknowing. If he is unsure, he can simply reach out. If he does not know, he can look into Draco’s eyes, and Draco will understand, will guide, will press and mold them together until, until, until-- 

It’s the mornings that are hard. In the sunlight, Draco’s eyes are punishing. In the sunlight, he is less a merciful God and more a vengeful angel. 

He doesn’t say anything to Harry, which isn’t a departure from the norm. They never said anything to one another but Harry wishes they could. He wishes they could touch, wishes they could be close to one another. He wishes it were just them in the house, so Harry could take the seat beside Draco and stroke his wrist as he sips his coffee. He wishes he could lay his head in Draco’s lap and smell his skin through his trousers. But he can’t because blokes don’t do any of that. They don't touch like it’s a gift. They don’t inhale the skin at the crook of another man’s neck. They don’t run their nails through the other’s beard scratching gently and smiling softly. They aren’t weak; aren’t needy; aren’t broken and perverted. At least, not in the sunlight they aren’t.  _ Sunlight is for decency _ , Aunt Petunia used to tut,  _ and all will come into the light in the end _ . What happens when this comes into the light? What would Ron think, if he knew that Harry sometimes looks at Draco curled in his armchair and craves the weight of his prick on his tongue? 

His derision would be on Harry’s shoulders then, and Harry-- Harry has always needed to be wanted. Or, perhaps it is better to say: he has always wanted to belong. He belongs with the Weasleys, belongs in their perfect home, with their quaint life, and their husbands who look adoringly at their wives-- Except Ginny, who looks at Luna. Except Charlie, who looks at no one. Except Fred, who looked at Hufflepuff boys. Except him, Harry, who looks at Draco and sometimes cannot look away. 

~

“You two alright, then?” 

Harry is certain his abject confusion is written plainly across his face. Ron shifts in his seat with discomfort, then looks back to the game in front of them. Even Harry can see that Ron is three clean moves away from victory, but Ron keeps moving away from the goal, making simple mistakes, drawing out Harry’s defeat. 

“You and Malfoy.” Harry’s face goes slack. Ron ploughs on, eyes firmly on the board. “Just seems like you’re having a bit of a domestic. An’ I know I’m not the best with emotions, but ‘m still your best mate, right?” Here he looks up to Harry’s face for confirmation, though of what Harry has no idea. His mind is still stuck in a loop of panic, realization coming slowly then with the force of a speeding freight train:  _ Ron knows _ . “So, if y’ wanna talk about any of it,” Ron is saying, “even just to use me as a sounding board-- I’m here.” 

Pleased with his speech, he moves one of Harry’s knights for him. It’s a better move than Harry would have made. “What--” Harry pauses, clears his throat. “What makes you think that?” Even as he says it, he isn’t sure what he’s referring to: his relationship with Malfoy that isn’t a relationship? Their fight that they aren’t having but certainly feels like they’re having?  _ Is _ this a fight?  _ Are _ they in a relationship? 

“Well, ‘s pretty clear, innit? Mind you, I had to run this theory by ‘Mione--” Something curls up and dies in Harry’s chest, its small corpse floating upstream into Harry’s throat. “But she agreed that somethin’ was off. Usually you two ‘re making eyes at one another, smiling when y’ think no one’s watchin’; actin’ sweet, you know?” Ron shrugs, moving his own piece, then Harry’s. “But lately you’ve been… off. I dunno. ‘Mione could put it better. But it’s like the two of yous are runnin’ away from one another but keep snapping back together, like those magnets ‘Mione talks about sometimes.” Another two moves. Ron announces check, then, “So, just figured I’d offer, in case you wanted to talk.” 

It’s a Herculean effort to speak around the dead thing in his mouth. “You don’t care?” 

Ron gives him a strange look. “What d’you mean?” 

The checkmate shatters into shards of white on Harry’s lap. 

~

That night, Draco pants against his shoulder, release sticky and quickly cooling between them. His hair, long again, loose over his shoulder, his back, their pillow. Harry gives into the ever-present urge to feel the fine strands between his fingers. 

“What are we?” 

Draco does not respond. He does not open his mouth to speak, but Harry watches the strong muscle at the corner of his jaw flex. Then he is shifting, moving away, letting Harry’s limp dick fall out of his body without mercy or apology. He disappears into the bathroom, naked in the moonlight and hard-lined in a way Harry has only ever associated with the day. When he returns, Malfoy lays on his own cot, back to Harry, leaving a Draco-shaped nothing in Harry’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is short, like chapter two, but I promise the next chapter is longer. I hope you're enjoying the story so far!


	4. open up your mouth if you want it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And it’s all about what you want, isn’t it? I’m not a prize to be won, Malfoy.” 
> 
> “You’re right! This story has never been about me! I’m just a prop for you to explore your sexuality with until you move onto somebody worthy of sharing your mind and heart with. You think I haven’t played this part before? I know all my lines, Potter! You’re the one that seems confused!” Draco takes a stuttered breath, clenches his teeth. “So now that we’ve established that this isn’t about me, we’re back to my question: what do you want?”

The sun rises over the table, their coffee gone cold in their hands once again. It’s a strange thing, to see Draco in the rising light of day. So often, Harry sees him one of two ways: bathed in moonlight, or drenched in the sun. Never has he seen Malfoy at dawn. Never has he watched the sun bloom across the flush of Draco’s lips. Never has he loved Draco this much, this violently. 

“You have to say it,” Draco says. He looks into his coffee like it might offer some clarity, some way out of this mess they’ve built around them; this grave Harry’s dug them into. “You’ll have to say you want me - want me for real. I-- I can’t be your dirty little secret. I won’t be that.” 

“I--” Harry looks at Draco, cannot look away. “I don’t know how.” 

“When has not knowing something _ever_ stopped you from plunging into the fold? You know what you want but you’re too stubborn or too afraid to say it, to admit it for everyone to see. I can’t wait forever for you to work up the nerve.” He is half avenging angel now, something strong and stubborn rising in his eyes. It occurs to Harry that he loves Malfoy just as much as he loves Draco. 

All night, Draco has sat at this table, reheating the same cup of coffee, waiting patiently as Harry hid - first behind his cloak, then behind his silence. Draco has waited through more - years of antagonism, months of fuckin under the cover of darkness. 

“I won’t wait forever,” Draco repeats quietly. “ I’m just telling you: I won’t wait for you forever. You aren’t the only person capable of loving me, Harry. You just _aren’t._ ” 

“I know.” 

“So then what are you going to do about it?” 

~

Nothing. Harry does nothing. He makes no grand gesture. There is no moment when he reaches over the breakfast table, links his fingers with Draco’s and counts their knuckles side by side. He’s frozen, just as he knew he’d be: unable to go forward and equally incapable of returning to before. 

When he thinks about it, he isn’t certain there’s a before to go back to. Since Malfoy entered his life, some part of Harry’s consciousness has orbited around him; his hair, his eyes, his lips, his voice, is laugh. It was easier then, when Malfoy was something simple, an enemy close enough to touch when everything else he fought was too big to wrap his head around. Now, nothing about Draco is simple. All of him haunts Harry, even as they share a room. Draco is far from untouchable, so far from an enemy that Harry is sometimes crushed under the weight of it. He’s part of Harry, now, deep in his system and touching every thought that passes through his mind. And with every day of Harry’s silence, his inertia, Draco moves further away. 

Worst of all, Draco is fine. There hasn’t been a break in his voracious appetite for literature. He still journals the day away, content in his pocket of sunlight. He jokes with Luna and Ginny, his grin toothy, unselfconscious. He challenges Hermione on their Ancient Runes summer work, brow furrowed as he tucks his hair behind his ear. One remarkable moment, Harry watches from the couch as Draco and Ron went toe-to-toe in a four hour chess match which ended in a tie. 

Draco isn’t _hurting_ like Harry is. Or if he is feeling some sting of loss, he’s hidden it so deeply that Harry has no hope of uncovering it. By all appearances Draco is fine, and Harry… isn’t. Harry isn’t fine and he’s starting to doubt if he ever will be. 

~

Draco finds him sitting at the edge of the pool. 

“You going for a dip?” 

These are the first words Draco has said to him in nearly a month. Harry looks over, counts ten toes, looks back to the water. 

“I see,” Draco sighs, dropping to a cross-legged position neatly. “We’re back to the silence.” 

“Have you just come to mock me, then? Rub it in my face how well you’re doing without me?” Harry doesn’t have to look to know that Draco’s eyebrows are competing for space with his hairline. The snappish reply Harry expected doesn’t come. The silence leaves him exposed, childish, painfully aware that he is coming apart at the seams. 

“I came to check on you; see how you’re doing. You’ve been… off.” 

“So says Ron.” 

“He _is_ worried about you.” Draco only has to glance at Harry before he’s laughing softly, gently, like they’re sharing an inside joke. “We aren’t talking about you behind your back or anything.” Shame rises in Harry’s throat. “We don’t even speak at all, really,” Draco continues. “But, much like you, his thoughts are written across his face. I’m starting to think it’s a Gryffindor thing.” 

“I was supposed to be in Slytherin.” Malfoy is brought to a gratifying halt. “The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin but I begged for Gryffindor. I didn’t want to be in the same House as you.” 

Draco tips his head back and laughs into the night. He’s beautiful. Harry isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry. “I don’t blame you,” Draco finally says. “I was a real prick at eleven. To be honest I wasn’t worth being around until Fifth Year, and by then you hated me.” 

“You cared what I thought of you?” 

“Of course I did. I still do.” Draco slides his bare feet into the water with a sigh. “I had the largest crush on you, though I couldn’t admit that to myself until…” He scrunches up his face, counting back the years. Harry wants to kiss his nose. “Fourth year? Maybe? By then Snape was grooming me, though. My path was set, the same as yours. I suppose every story needs a villain; or at least an antihero. I don’t suppose I matter enough in the grand scheme of things to have been your villain.” 

“You mattered to me.” The words hang in midair between them. Harry pushes forward, keenly aware of the blood rushing in his cheeks and his ears. “Sure, Voldemort was always there, in the back of my mind, written across my forehead, et cetera. But, I dunno. I didn’t think of him nearly as much as I thought of you.” 

Draco snorts a laugh. “I’m flattered.” 

“Prick.” 

“Yes, quite.” 

Harry rolls his eyes, returns his gaze to the water. “Looking back, I reckon I had a big crush on you ‘s well. I just-- I wanted your attention; wanted you t’ know I was thinking of you, wanted you to think of me. It was all a bit pulling-on-pigtails, but… Dunno. You mattered to me more than anyone, now that I’m really thinking about it.” 

“And now?” 

“Wha’?” 

“And now?” Draco’s eyes have an intensity that Harry has always associated with Malfoy, but they aren’t hard. They’re just… looking at him, waiting for him to make his move. Draco has _always_ waited. “Do you want my attention?” Draco continues. “Do you want me to know you think of me? Do you want me to think of you? 

“I do, you know? Think of you; all the time. It’s embarrassing, really. But we’ve already talked about me. I want to talk about you. Do you still feel that way about me?” 

“I thought everything was written across my face.” 

Draco scowls, looks down into the water. “Sure, some things are. Your desire, for one. You want to fuck me, that much is certain. But you can be so _cryptic_ about other things - so much so that I’m starting to think it’s not a conscious omission so much as it is a subconscious denial. So, I ask again, do you still feel that way about me? Do you want more with me than a fuck? Because, to return to your earlier sentiment, it’s impossible for me to be doing well without you as I never had you in the first!” 

A flush has risen to the apples of Draco’s cheeks. His hands tremble against the grass. His expression, already hard, hardens further, then smooths completely to stone. “I never had you in the first,” he repeats quietly. “And now it seems I never will. I don’t know why I expected anything else.” 

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Draco. Tell me what you want me to say.” 

“An answer, Potter. I want your answer, whatever it may be! I’ve already told you mine, but I’ll repeat it for good measure: I want you. All of you. I’ve had a crush on you, pined for you, watched you die and watched you bloody resurrect yourself again. I’ve wanted you for years, and I still want you, even when you keep me at arms length, even when you give me absolutely nothing.” 

“And it’s all about what you want, isn’t it? I’m not a prize to be won, Malfoy.” 

“You’re right!” The words explode out of him like a cry of victory, like he’s relieved to finally have the words in the open. “This story has _never_ been about me! I’m just a prop for you to explore your sexuality with until you move onto somebody worthy of sharing your mind and heart with. You think I haven’t played this part before? I know all my lines, Potter! You’re the one that seems confused!” Draco takes a stuttered breath, clenches his teeth. “So now that we’ve established that this _isn’t_ about me, we’re back to my question: _what do you want?_ ” 

The word gets stuck in Harry’s throat. _You_ . Three letters. _You_. Harry watches as Draco, so alive with fury and passion and love, cools to wry bitterness. He quirks an eyebrow, looks back to the water. 

“This is what I get for asking,” he says quietly. “I should have contented myself with what I had when I had it. You’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now.” He sways his feet gently, sending ripples through the water. 

Harry breaks the silence after it has hung long enough to go stale. “Sometimes I think the Sorting Hat was right,” Harry admits. “That I belong in Slytherin. Because just when I need courage the most, it betrays me.” 

Malfoy huffs a laugh. “Gryffindor and Slytherin aren’t fundamentally opposed; not the way the Dumbledore made us out to be anyway. In fact, we’re more alike than we are dissimilar. Cunning isn’t the absence of courage and neither is courage the absence of cunning. In the end, the Houses are self-fulfilling prophecies. They encourage whatever traits they value in every person who passes through their doors. You’ve done just as well in Gryffindor as you would have done in Slytherin.” 

“Worse.” Harry sighs, pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them. He looks at Draco. Draco looks back. “I would have done better in Slytherin. ‘Least that’s what the Sorting Hat told me, and I’m inclined to believe it. Everyone in Gryffindor is… Nobody is ever afraid, you know? They just… do shit. Damn the consequences. They don’t care what they look like, they don’t care who sees them. I-- I care about all of that shit. I’m a walking ball of nerves; constantly terrified. And I wonder if I was in Slytherin… if I’d learned to feel my fear, respect it, and do what I wanted anyway… Dunno. Maybe if I’d been taught that, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” 

Draco leans close, presses a kiss to his shoulder. Harry nearly weeps. “It seems to me you’ve already been taught it. Now you’ve got to apply it. Nobody can teach you that, though. That’s the part you have to learn by yourself.” 

Draco pulls his feet from the water, stands up, and disappears into the house. Harry stays to watch the water turn to stillness. 

~

 _What do you want?_ Draco’s words play on repeat in Harry’s mind. _What do you want?_

Draco. He wants Draco, and he wants Malfoy just as badly. There is a Draco-Malfoy-shaped nothing in his life, in his hands, on his lips, in his mouth. His day is spent navigating around this nothingness, feeling its outline and entirely unable to probe its depth. 

_What do you want?_ He wants to love Draco in the sunlight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, a longer chapter! The next one is the finish line, friends!


	5. i'm stupid in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco is the first to find his composure, wiping tears away from his eyes. He shifts slightly, steps into a beam of sunshine slipping into their attic bedroom. Feeling the sun on his face, Draco closes his eyes, opens his palms and spreads his arms out like he’s feeling a personal rush of wind. His face is a palette of gold and cream, fine eyelashes clumped together, pink lips opened in a pleased sigh. 
> 
> “You’re gorgeous.” The words spill out of Harry’s mouth. He has to fight not to apologize for them. Draco opens his eyes, pins Harry in their sights. 
> 
> “Thank you,” he sighs. “I think you’re gorgeous, too.” He pauses, seems to hold a thought in his mouth. Then, “Come join me. The sunlight is warm.”

“I know what I want.” 

Draco looks up from his book, eyebrows quirked over the rim of his glasses. There’s a dead thing in Harry’s mouth, putrefied and sweet, but he holds Draco’s gaze, resists the urge to look away and swallow it back down. 

Draco opens his mouth, then seems to think better of his words. “What do you want, Harry?” 

“You.” His heart is pounding in his throat. The tips of his ears are flaming. He feels like he’s in freefall, no broom beneath him, no chance of escaping without injury. “I want you. I want to be--” He stumbles, catches himself. “I want to be close to you. I mean, close  _ with _ you. In the sunlight. I want you for real. I-- I’m not good with words, Draco, not like you, but--” 

Draco sets his book down on the cot, rises slowly as Harry babbles away, barely conscious of what he’s saying. 

“I don’t know where I’m going in life,” Harry blurts, blindsided by his own change in conversation. “I-- I haven’t even decided whether I’m going back to Hogwarts and we’re meant to leave in a week, but-- and I know you’ve got your whole life planned out, and you’re going to be a brilliant Curse Breaker and then retire to be a professor of ancient runes or something else equally impressive, and-- Fuck, Draco, my plans for the future are just lists of what I don’t want, but--” 

Draco Malfoy is standing in front of him, close enough to touch, to hug, to kiss. It occurs to Harry that this is the first time they’ve stood so close; the first time they’re meeting on their own two feet. 

“Harry.” Draco’s hands are on his chest, then his cheeks. Draco’s thumb draws gentle paths on his cheekbones. Harry sways helplessly closer, lets his hands curl into Draco’s waist. 

“‘M mad about you, Draco. Embarrassingly so.” 

Then Draco is the one that’s breaking, a flush rising quickly to his cheeks, eyes and nose growing red before he dives for Harry’s throat. He rises up to his toes, clutches Harry’s back, his neck, the short hairs on the nape of his neck. Harry finds himself grasping just as desperately, feeling Draco’s ribs jump and stutter beneath his hands. Draco’s breath is warm and wet on Harry’s neck, and his glasses are pressing sharp lines into the sensitive skin, but Harry finds he doesn’t mind. His own eyes are hot and he squeezes them shut, leans further into the long lines of Draco’s body. 

Draco inhales sharply, pulls away just enough to press their foreheads together. He looks up, unusually shy, presses a soft kiss to Harry’s lips. “You mean it?” 

Harry hasn’t slowed his freefall, but neither has he hit the ground. “Yeah. Yes. Yes, I mean it.” 

Draco bites his bottom lip, only partially dampening the grin spreading across his face. There are tear-tracks down his cheeks - down both of their faces, now that Harry is conscious of his body beyond his existential dread. But Draco doesn’t move to erase them, doesn’t hide how deeply he feels, how passionately he’s moved by life. 

Harry goes to say something, to fumble his way through a compliment, when the door to their bedroom swings open. Molly stands at the top of the stairs, a basket of laundry balanced on her hip. Harry startles, pulls away, scrubs harshly at his face with the sleeve of his tee-shirt. Draco grabs his hand at the last moment, links their fingers, squeezes his palm. Harry takes a deep breath, reminds himself that this isn’t the end of the world. 

“Oh!” Molly seems surprised, but not shocked. “Sorry to barge in on you boys - I didn’t think you’d be awake this early in the morning.” She smiles brightly, pats the laundry bin as she bustles into the room. “I’ve got some clean clothes for ya. Draco, dear, if you don’t mind I could use some more of that softening potion you make. It’s done wonders for the sweaters and such.” 

Draco clears his throat in a way that sounds suspiciously similar to muffling a laugh. Harry feels his own incredulous laugh begin to bubble in his throat. 

“Of course, Mrs. Weasely.” Draco’s voice is the epitome of good manners. “I’ll get to that today.” 

“Oh, ‘s no rush, dearie. I’ve still got enough to last me a week. And I’m glad you two got yourselves sorted out.” Her voice takes on a strange, no-nonsense tone as she straightens from her shuffling of clothes on the desk they shoved in the corner. She turns her head just enough to eye Harry, giving him something bizarrely close to a stink eye. “I know you two haven’t had the smoothest road to walk, but that’s no excuse, Harry, dear. You treat that boy of yours right, y’hear?” 

Harry shoots a look at Draco, who is doing his level best to muffle laughter in their clasped palms. Harry shakes his head, tugs Draco closer just to feel the heat of their shoulders pressed together. Draco goes willingly, rests his head in the notch of Harry’s neck. “Of course, Mrs. Weasley.” 

She tuts and waves her hand good naturedly. “Don’t you go Mrs. Weasely-ing me now, Harry. It’s just ‘Mum’. Has been for years. The same to you, Draco, dearie.” Harry feels Draco stiffen in shock, and it’s Harry’s turn to squeeze their palms together in reassurance. “Breakfast will be ready in just a bit,” Molly carries on. “I’ll holler when it’s ready.” 

With that she’s bustling out of their room and pulling the door shut with a definitive click. Draco snorts, a harsh sudden sound, then pulls in a breath and holds it. His shoulders begin shaking with suppressed laughter moments later. Harry only manages a few more moments before he’s laughing outright, carried by a wave of incredulousness and shock. Draco buries his face in his hands, laughter jumping out between his pressed-tight palms. 

Draco is the first to find his composure, wiping tears away from his eyes. He shifts slightly, steps into a beam of sunshine slipping into their attic bedroom. Feeling the sun on his face, Draco closes his eyes, opens his palms and spreads his arms out like he’s feeling a personal rush of wind. His face is a palette of gold and cream, fine eyelashes clumped together, pink lips opened in a pleased sigh. 

“You’re gorgeous.” The words spill out of Harry’s mouth. He has to fight not to apologize for them. Draco opens his eyes, pins Harry in their sights. 

“Thank you,” he sighs. “I think you’re gorgeous, too.” He pauses, seems to hold a thought in his mouth. Then, “Come join me. The sunlight is warm.” 

Harry thinks of making a comment about summer heat and feeling warm enough without looking for it. At the last moment he holds his tongue, hears the double meaning in Draco’s words. Hesitant, he steps behind Draco, wraps himself around his-- what? Lover? Boyfriend? He doesn’t know and suddenly he cannot go another moment without asking, without having an answer, a name for this.  _ I see now why everyone was so afraid to say Voldemort _ , he thinks wildly.  _ Names can have so much power; names make things real _ . 

“What are we?” He presses the words into the skin just behind Draco’s ear, follows it with a kiss, hungry to feel close to Draco again. He feels Draco stiffen slightly, then release his breath in a controlled stream, some of his tension easing away with it. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

Belatedly, Harry remembers the last time he asked, sees, suddenly, how callous it was. “I mean-- What are--” He pauses, buries his face in Draco’s shoulder, tries to find the right words and maybe some composure to go with them. “Are we… boyfriends?” 

Draco stiffens again. “If you want us to be.” His voice is perfectly even, too composed to be real, to be honest. 

Harry pauses, tries to think his way around this query then gives up entirely. Subtlety has never been his strong suit, and he doubts now is the time to strengthen the skill. “You-- Before, you said this story is about me. But I don’t want that anymore. I-- I want this story to be about us. What you want matters to me. I don’t want this if you don’t want it too.” 

Draco groans in frustration and turns in Harry’s arms. He grabs Harry’s face between his hands. “You are so utterly dense sometimes. I’ve said it a million times before. I want you. I want us. How can I make that more clear to you? What do I need to say?” 

Time-space vertigo strikes again, his own words echoed in Draco’s mouth. He grabs it, leans into the spinning of his head, the racing of his heart. “Say you want to be my boyfriend. Or don’t. But-- the truth. Your truth. Your answer to my question. That's what I need to hear.” 

The lines of Draco’s face soften. “Yes. I want us to be boyfriends.” 

“For real?” Harry confirms. 

“For real. In the sunlight.” 

Harry can only nod like the fool he is. 

Draco sighs, shakes his head. “I think I’ve just been adopted by the Weasley matriarch.” 

Harry snorts, pulls Draco even closer. “‘M afraid so.” 

“Circe’s tit. Will wonders ever cease?” Draco doesn’t sound upset. In fact, he sounds pleased, quietly happy to be wanted. Harry knows the feeling. He lets them bask in their belonging, in their sunlight, for a while longer. He reels Draco into a kiss, enjoys the click of their glasses, the rush of Draco’s laughter against his lips. 

“C’mon,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you some coffee.” 

“For real? In the sunlight?” 

“For real. In the sunlight.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, friends, we've reached the end! I hope this has brought solace and joy, especially to my American friends as we await the results. Be well, my loves!


End file.
